


Into the Blue

by electricalgwen



Category: Angel: the Series, Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Gen, Post-Apocalypse, Post-Canon, Post-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-13
Updated: 2015-04-13
Packaged: 2018-03-22 15:13:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3733543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/electricalgwen/pseuds/electricalgwen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for prompt "Buffy and Illyria run into each other randomly while fighting in a city." Comics canon is completely ignored. Warning: non-canon character deaths are mentioned. Specifically, the alley fight in NFA did not go well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Into the Blue

I decided to sign up for the "Buffy is the hero, damnit!" ficathon because I liked the idea. Buffy _is_ the hero (or at least _a_ hero, don't you know they come in six-packs?), and I'd recently seen a bit of Buffy-bashing around that I felt needed redressing, y'know?

Of course, I blithely ignored the fact that I would have to write Buffy (duh) which is something I find tough at the best of times. Buffy with Illyria? Tricky. Oodles of thanks to [](http://laisserais.livejournal.com/profile)[**laisserais**](http://laisserais.livejournal.com/) and [](http://cordelianne.livejournal.com/profile)[**cordelianne**](http://cordelianne.livejournal.com/) for (last-minute) beta reading and helpful suggestions. Standard [disclaimers](http://electricalgwen.livejournal.com/profile) apply. 

  
**Into the Blue**

Buffy leads a peripatetic existence these days.

She knows that word because Dawn taught it to her. Dawn is the reason they bounce around the world like a pinball.

What Buffy did – had Willow do – in Sunnydale should have eased the burden. It’s no longer “one girl against the darkness”; now there’s a Slayer on every corner. Well, almost. Giles and Andrew are doing a great job building the global Slayer Defense Network and they’ve got options. They don’t need Buffy to jet from one Hellmouth to another, one potential catastrophe to the next.

She’d thought about… not retiring, exactly, but… downsizing. Staking single vamps preying in nightclubs, not marauding hordes. Patrolling to keep her hand in, instead of having to haul her ass around every night exhausted beyond belief because the gods themselves were on the loose. Teaching new Slayers because it was fun and kind of nice to be hero-worshipped, rather than because they didn’t know a stake from a cell phone and the apocalypse was tomorrow and the First Evil was about to kill them all anyway.

She could have had a regular job. Gone back into counseling, maybe. She had a pretty impressive line on teenage angst, after all, and without the distraction of having a doomed army living in her house she might have been good at it.

She could have had time for latte sipping and shoe shopping. A home. Not a house, maybe, too much work. A nice city center apartment, with new appliances and trendy furniture and a cute security guard downstairs.

She’d had a year, though she didn’t know it at the time. It had been a good year, but still. Only a year.

Then – the world changed.

Giles either didn’t know or wouldn’t share details, but something had happened to the fabric of reality. All their hard work – her _death_ – had only bought them a few years. _Sooner or later it’s gonna catch you_ , Spike had said. _One day you get tired_ , and evidently it was true. Something had been missed, someone had slipped, and the demons were upon them.

Dimensional boundaries are flimsy these days. Homeland Security’s a joke. Even the general public have noticed by now – hard not to, with dragons flickering in and out of existence above major cities daily, with devils moving in next door. Seems like every day there’s something new, and the invaders all seem to have one goal: remove the last of the barriers. Open the doors unreservedly. And for that? They need a key.

They need _the_ Key.

Some of them are dumb as toast, and she’s thankful for small mercies, but others are strong and intelligent and they’ve nearly been caught too many times. Once Dawn _was_ caught, and that was the first and only time Buffy’s been thankful for the dimensional instability – her captors winked out before the ritual was completed, long enough for Buffy to grab Dawn and run.

They’re still running.

She’s pretty sure Giles _does_ know more than he lets on, but she’ll never ask. Because it’s not anger, censure, or protection she sees in his gaze and the slump of his shoulders.

It’s guilt.

Whatever happened, Giles feels responsible.

And she doesn’t want to know why.

 

 

She calls home once a week. When the phone lines are working, anyway. Odd energy surges have become an accepted happening. People have quit complaining to the telecom companies; now they just curse mildly, kick the modem and try again later. Wi-fi is particularly unreliable, although Dawn claims this actually helps them keep in touch; it’s even harder to trace the emails they _do_ manage to send from libraries or coffee shops. Also, the energy fluctuations probably help mask whatever-it-is their pursuers can sense about Dawn. Still, it’s a pain in the ass.

“I said, can you get us tickets out of here? I think someone was following me yesterday.”

“I’m sorry, Buffy, I really can’t hear you. Try again later?” A crackle of static interrupted the line briefly; “ – no indication of problems. There should be money arriving in – ”

Giles’ voice goes tinny before a series of bleeps cuts them off.

 

 

Leaving Dawn alone in the cheap hotel room worries her. But bringing Dawn out to patrol the streets is out of the question – even Dawn admits that, these days – and staying holed up means she’ll have no warning. She’s got to get out, get around, walk the beat and hear the news, to feel the pursuit before it’s upon them. Therefore, she needs to leave Dawn. It’s logically justifiable.

The fact that sometimes she really needs to hit things doesn’t invalidate the logic. Both can be true.

They say there’s nothing new under the sun. Maybe that was true once. These days, though, you have to look out for things bred under different suns. She’s even heard rumors of daylight vampires – vampires from another dimension, able to withstand our sunshine without catching fire. And demons – well, previously unclassified ones pop up all the time. This is driving the library and research staff of the Council insane; they hate being surprised by stuff not in their books.

So when the blue-haired woman steps out of a side alley from which Buffy had heard no sound at all, it doesn’t surprise her. Startles her a bit, in that jump-back-pull-out-stake-knees-flexed-ready-to-leap kind of way, but the _existence_ of the thing is accepted.

They stand ten feet apart, sizing each other up.

Buffy becomes acutely aware of the scuffs on her boots and the stain on her jacket – ironic, that after all the disgusting things she’s been covered with in her time, it was the chocolate sauce that wouldn’t come out – as the woman looks at her. For one, the woman stares at her as if Buffy’s a particularly annoying bug. For another, she’s wearing a _killer_ leather outfit. Faith would be green with envy. Though it does look as if she should creak when she moves, and Buffy never heard a sound.

The woman is unnaturally still. Angel used to stand like that. Spike could, but never did. Buffy stops those trains of thought before they derail.

“So.” Buffy tries for light-hearted. “Any good clubs down this neck of the woods?”

“There are no trees for several blocks. Nor are there any drinking establishments. This is not a good place for humans.” The stare is taking on weight. Buffy blinks in sympathy. “You are not looking for relaxation.”

“And I’m thinking, neither are you.” Buffy puts her hands on her hips. “I’m also thinking, you’re not human. So what are you?”

“I am Illyria.”

Buffy waits but nothing else is forthcoming.

Illyria looks annoyed. “You do not know of me.”

“Nuh-uh.”

“You are a hunter. You should know such things.”

“I generally operate on a need-to-know basis.” Buffy pulls her stake and begins twirling it absently. “Mostly, I need to know how to kill things. I haven’t needed to know about you yet.” She stops twirling, rests the newly sharpened point against her palm. “Do you think I should learn?”

“You rejoice in your ignorance. This is foolhardy and pathetic. The ones who pursue you are not so careless.”

Fear and anger begin to creep through Buffy in equal measure. “You know who I am.”

Illyria looks even more disdainful, something Buffy wouldn’t have thought possible. “I know you are the Slayer; I have seen a picture. This matters nothing to me. I did not seek you out.”

“Really?” Buffy puts on her best Cordelia-inspired scorn. “’Cause I’m having a hard time believing you just happened on to me accidentally.”

“Your belief is of no importance to me. I simply give you a warning. I have heard much about you and about the thing you possess. Many are seeking it.”

“The secret recipe for Doublemeat Burgers?”

“You dare to jest with me?” The voice matches the face: cold, like blue ice. “I know you have the Key with you. Even if I had not been told, I can taste it on you.”

“I dare a whole lot,” says Buffy, eyes narrowing, “and you’re talking about my _sister._ Dawn is under _my_ protection. She is not a _thing_.”

“The shell created to hold the Key is a fiction. You cling to the idea of a sister, because you falsely believe it makes up for what you have lost. This is misguided.”

“You have no idea what I’ve lost,” Buffy hisses.

“You are wrong. I know much about you.” Illyria’s tone remains impassive. “Your female parent is dead, and your home lost in the destruction of a Hellmouth. You have squandered your heritage and diluted your power, to save a world of insignificant and ungrateful beings. Your strongest allies, the vampire half-breeds, left you and are now dead. You had a – ”

The litany continues but Buffy hears nothing over the roaring in her ears, can say nothing through the constriction of her throat. Her blood is ice, her bones jelly. Her stake clatters to the uneven pavement.

“You did not know.”

Buffy shakes her head, a tiny movement. Bile rises in her throat; she swallows hard.

“They both died in the great fight. The Wolf, Ram and Hart opened a portal and brought in squadrons of their armies. My pet destroyed thousands. He had little enough care for his existence to begin with, but when the one called Angel fell to the dragon, he ceased to keep any guard, and he, too, fell soon thereafter.”

Buffy takes a few halting steps and lays her palm against the surface of the nearest building. The rough brick snags her skin. _Both of them?_

“Your – pet?”

“The one who called me into this time was a weak fool. There are none of your race truly worthy to serve me. I kept the white-haired half-breed instead. He was strong.” Illyria frowns. “He lacked the proper respect. He frequently thought he was amusing. He was not.”

White-haired.

_Alive?_

Dead.

Again.

A crazy thought wanders through Buffy’s head: whoever or whatever arranges for the transport and sorting of souls must be fed up with Spike.

There are a thousand things she should ask.

“You saw a picture?”

That shouldn’t have been one of them, but it’s what surfaces from the maelstrom.

Illyria doesn't seem thrown by the non sequitur. “The white-haired one showed it to me. It was not a good likeness. Also, he had spilt alcoholic beverage on it. Still, you are recognizable.”

“How did he – why would he show – what did he say?” Buffy flounders. “How was he _there?_ I saw him burn!” She feels a small, slow burn herself, anger rising. How had she not known?

“He was returned to this world. When I was also returned to this world, I encountered Angel and those around him, including the white-haired one. They feared me – as well they should. Some studied me in books. My pet thought he studied me by fighting; I tested his reflexes to pass the time. He fought tolerably well.” Illyria frowns. “They tried to enlist me in their futile struggle with the Wolf, the Ram and the Hart. He showed me the picture of you in an attempt to appeal to the instincts of the shell, talking of family, friends, and _love_.” The word sounds sticky and awkward in Illyria’s mouth.

“Shell?” Buffy wrinkles her forehead. “You mean your Xena outfit?” She can’t think about the bigger things yet. If she does, she’ll lose it.

“No. The body I wear. This repugnant, puny human form. If you saw my natural grandeur you would tremble and fall before me. Vow obeisance…” Illyria’s voice rises and trembles; she pauses for a moment. “The girl who owned this body was an ally of your Angel. She was highly intelligent for one of your inferior species. My priest chose her for the immense honor she did not deserve: that of hosting me, Illyria, god-king of the multitudes for uncounted eons before your ancestors crawled from the primordial muck! She was weak, however, as most humans. When I first arrived in this shell, my power threatened to overwhelm it.” She eyes Buffy speculatively. “Your body would have been better suited.”

“Gee, thanks.”

Illyria either fails to grasp the sarcasm, or ignores it. “Angel and his colleagues were fond of the shell. They found a way to divert my power so we would not all perish. They trapped it in another dimension. I can only access it fully when the dimensional boundaries are weak, but this feeble body will not support it for long.”

She coughs. “I am not accustomed to so much talking.”

Anger is a bright flame now. “It’s your fault? What’s happening to the world?”

“You do not listen well, do you, Slayer?” Illyria raises one eyebrow in a gesture at once foreign and terribly familiar. “The Wolf, Ram and Hart ripped the dimensions. They were angry with Angel. I believe they made a mistake and unleashed more power than they intended. The chaos you see in this world is the result.”

She takes a step closer to Buffy. Her stare could penetrate lead.

“I cannot control it, though when I ruled in my full power, time and space danced to my every whim. I also wish to end the incursions. They disturb me. My allies did not die for this.”

“Glad to hear it,” Buffy says. “Any ideas spring to mind?”

“You carry the answer with you.”

Buffy stares in turn for a moment, before clueing in and throwing up her hands. “God, you’re just like all the others. You demons have a one-track mind! You know, it gets boring after a while.”

“Keys close as well as open. Release the energy in the right way and it will seal your world. I can guide you, if you wish.”

Buffy clenches her fists and breathes in, out, steadying herself. “You just don’t get it, do you? Dawn is not some artifact. She’s my _sister._ If you’d listened to _anything_ Spike told you about love, you’d know better. Spike loved her and protected her – he would have _died_ for her. She is not something you can use!”

“Are you not a leader?” Illyria counters. “Sacrifices must sometimes be made to reach your goal. You endanger your whole world for the sake of a fabrication. This is foolish.”

“Is that what you did?” Buffy challenges. “Sacrifice?” She keeps breathing, focusing her rage down to a point, diamond-tipped and brilliant. “Did Angel and Spike die for _you?”_

“I mourned them, though it shames me.” Illyria’s face is unreadable. “You cannot understand.”

There's too much here, too many dangers and too much grief. The past could overwhelm her if she let it.

She never lets it. She has long practice in this. Do the job at hand.

“Dawn is not a _shell._ And I _will_ protect her.” She stoops and retrieves her stake, tucking it back in her pocket, eyes never leaving Illyria. “What I understand is that Spike and Angel died as champions. In a fight that you survived – and I might ask how that happened, except I’m really not interested in lies. I understand that you’re a risk to Dawn, _and_ that you’ve stolen a body that doesn’t belong to you.” She purses her lips. “Did I leave anything out? Oh, and you despise us all.”

Buffy folds her arms. “So, this is how it’s going to be. You leave Dawn alone. You go back to your home dimension or holding cell or whatever, and give that body back to the girl it belongs to. Or I take you down, and my friends find a way to forcibly evict you. I doubt they’ll be gentle. We’re a little tired of extra-dimensional visitors these days, you know?”

“You cannot.”

Buffy sighs. “You wouldn’t believe how many demons say that. They’re always wrong.”

“You would not best me in a fight, but that is irrelevant. You ask what cannot be granted. There is no one left to reclaim this body. Her soul has been lost.”

“Then I will _find_ her,” Buffy grits out. “And _you_ will lose.”

The indigo eyes hold… not compassion, nor pity, but a desolation so immense that no human could encompass it. An awareness of loss and scales of loss, and the horror of time.

“That battle ended before I awoke. I fought it unknowingly, but I won. Else I would not be here. The soul called Winifred is destroyed. It is nowhere to be found, by you or any other, Slayer.” Blue shadows shift as Illyria tilts her head to the side. “You did not know her. Your Angel rescued her and kept her as one of his pets, though she was damaged. But he would not keep you. Why do you care about her?”

“Because that’s what I do.” Buffy reaches to the sheath at her waist and draws her blade, smoothly, unhurriedly. “I save people. And if Angel kept her? Then she was worth keeping.”

She stabs forward, almost quicker than the eye can follow, but her strike meets empty air. Illyria’s voice echoes from the other side of the street.

“You cannot hope to win. I do not seek your destruction, but you will not be able to hold the shell with you forever. You may defeat or flee from those who seek it, but the Key will not rest until it has fulfilled its destiny.”

“I know all about destiny,” Buffy says tersely. “I give _speeches_ on destiny. And if there’s one thing I know, it’s that destiny is surprisingly flexible.”

 

 

She runs all the way back to the hotel, but her mind is racing far ahead of her feet.

Dawn is watching Ben Stiller being chased by a dinosaur. The bags are packed. They’re always packed.

“Time to go.”

_Time and space danced to my every whim._

“Already?” Dawn glances up. She’s tired, dark smudges under her eyes. The air of worry she wears reminds Buffy suddenly, painfully, of their mom. “Oh my god, how many demons did you meet? Was there fighting? You look awful.”

“Just the usual,” Buffy says, with a wave of her hand. “But we need to move.”

_Your body would have been better suited._

Dawn sighs. “Okay.” She starts putting on her coat.

Buffy shoulders her knapsack. “Do you think you can get Giles on the line tomorrow?”

“Probably. The weather’s supposed to clear.” Dawn meets her eyes. “What’s up?”

“I just want to ask him something,” Buffy says, careful to keep her tone light. “Get him to look some stuff up. I heard about a power source tonight that might be useful.”

_Sacrifices must be made._

“Really?” She hasn’t seen hope on Dawn’s face in far too long.

She would give up anything to fulfill that hope.

“Really,” Buffy confirms.

_Angel fell to the dragon._ She will do what it takes.

They step out into the chill and head for the train station. A gentle wind picks up as they walk; from somewhere, they catch the scent of magnolias. Morning is still a long way off but the dark sky hints of the blue it will become.

 

~  



End file.
